


The Charleston

by sapling



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Gang’s All Here, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Organized Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 22:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12897720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapling/pseuds/sapling
Summary: New Jersey native and pre-law grad turned ghostwriter Kyle Broflovski lands a contract with a publisher, leading him to make a spur of the moment decision to move to New York during the peak of the decade.It’s 1924.He gets blissfully, hopelessly distracted.





	The Charleston

_East 117th St. Apt 7F_  
_September 22nd, 1924_  
_3:07am_

His mother and father had different views of how he should approach the life ahead of him.

From the time when he was young, his mother insisted he be careful with his first steps and bask in the morning of a new century, while his father insisted he run and never stop--to out run the others and prove his worth to him, to the world, and to God. His mother was gentle when he fell ill, a near constant part of his existence, and his father shoved him out of bed the very moment color came back to his cheeks. While his mother never failed to attempt to shield her dear son’s eyes from the crudeness of reality, his father grabbed him by the chin and forced him to watch every crucial second.

 _"Ma, I’ll be fine.”_ His own words rang in his ears, amplified by the first bit of silence he’d gotten a taste of since arriving, _“Manhattan’s a train ride away, you don’t gotta come hound my ass like I’m still some kid—“_

 _"But you are a kid! And most importantly, you’re my kid!”_ His mother had unabashedly wrapped him in a bubble of warmth and protection at every given opportunity, while a slap on the back and a swig of the finest liquor the eastern seaboard had to offer was the extent of his affections.

A stupidly typical family dynamic, but Kyle Broflovski was never inhibited by it.

_“There’s plenty of interesting people to write about right here in Newark,” her usual hysterics were muted in comparison to the other times he’d venture off into the “great unknown”—anyplace that was more than ten miles from their house, “You’ll do a fine job and you won’t find yourself mugged in broad daylight—o-or worse, knifed, **beaten** —!”_

      Kyle had resisted to roll his eyes at that statement, _‘That could happen anywhere’_ he began to say, but that would’ve snatched the last bit of peace his mother possessed so he resigned to giving her another hug, the fourth or fifth one that morning. The smell of brown sugar and oranges from a hearty breakfast served by hers truly enveloped his senses once again and put him at an ease he wasn’t aware he needed up until that moment. He wasn’t a well-travelled man; while he went on holiday with his family, the furthest he’d gone by himself was to university which was only a half-hour from his childhood home. From what he understood right then, the only real difference between the city he grew up in and the one he set out for was an uptick in population and a different view of the Atlantic.

  
        The world already revealed itself through the novels he constantly had his nose in so the prospect of moving didn’t faze him; he felt as if he’d prepared enough for what lay before the Jersey-native. The usual smog, the usual bustling of a brand new age that welcomed all who wanted to seize what it offered with open arms and an unforgiving challenge that attracted people from all walks of life—this was present in Newark, yes. He recognized that New York might have a different atmosphere with an added element being the gateway to America and all, yes. That wasn’t a reason to be afraid, of all things. No, this was _enticing_. Submerging himself in a different environment was something he so desperately needed, not even just for the sake of writing. His mother was right, the biography could be written without relocating. He could make hour long trips back and forth every other weekend and make phone calls, then retreat back into the corner of the same uptown café he’d been going to along with all of the other residents of Newark for nearly a decade; he _could_ pen his work there—but he needed to be away from home.

    Frost crept along the edges of a single bedroom window that allowed him to peer to the streets below, still illuminated by a few stray automobiles—but it was _quiet._ It seemed that the city finally retired —at least on that particular street—a little after three a.m. He impulsively rung his hands together against the cold, noting it was also the beginning of the work week and he shouldn’t give that much credit. That entire weekend he didn’t do much aside from settling into his new space, rearranging his desk fitted with a refurbished typewriter ten, fifteen times, and waiting for the appointment he arranged weeks ago with a man who stayed in East Harlem. His train had arrived at Penn Station on a Friday afternoon, a ways away from the apartment he’d be staying in and splitting rent with its current tenant. He arrived with the expectation of said tenant meeting him there along with the person who set him up with them, an old friend.

Neither showed.

                  _“I’ll be back for Thanksgiving,” his mother held his shoulders to the point they grew sore, a pair of sad, worn hazel eyes looked at him as if it’d be the last time she’d see her oldest, “And I’ll be back in time for_ Chanukah. _I can take care of myself out there ‘till then,” Kyle watched as her expression softened at last, so he smiled in turn, “Promise.”_

     He’d grown considerably since grade school. Kyle used to be a scrawny thing, his family members affectionately pointed this out at every gathering--though there was always concern in their joking. He was sickly, once bedridden when he was six for two months straight, which so happened to be the same year his parents were arranging for his younger brother to move from an orphanage into their two-story house. Sheila and Gerald Broflovski were preparing for the possible death of a child and picking the colors and linens to fit the bedroom _adjacent to his_ for a _new one_...at least that’s how he rationalized things back then. That grudge had since subsided upon finding his adoptive brother complimented his personality like a fly to glue paper.

       Ike graduated early and was promptly accepted by Oxford with recommendations from every educator in the state to the delight of his father despite the well-kept secret between the two brothers Ike was _probably_ , sorta-kinda, _definitely_ going into _medicine_ , not law. That bomb could be dropped later when he inevitably ended up in a multi-million dollar house laden with women galore somewhere out west, miles away from underneath Gerald’s thumb and all the boring, unwanted lawyering advice he offered. Or perhaps he’d stay abroad and scope out all of Europe’s gifts. He was a textbook prodigy, a mathematical _genius_ , the local research center wanted to study the very extent of the abilities the golden child of the Broflovskis had within his grip when he was only thirteen, but being treated like a near  _lab rat_ wasn’t appealing to him or his mother.

Meanwhile Kyle blossomed, quietly.

                    _“…I know,_ bubbeleh _,” her once bright, ginger hair had dulled in comparison to her son’s. She had reached up to cup his cheek, huffing, “I’ve already done this twice now, mind you—it don’t get any easier.”_

_“Hell, Ike’s way further than I’ll be anyhow.” he quipped._

_“Oh, don't remind me! And don’t you go **chasing** after him, either!” _

    Kyle’s virtually untamable hair was exposed in all its glory in the glow of a desk lamp that was perched precariously atop few books in his room. While he was in university, he tried to have it cut as close to his scalp as possible, but it was a useless chore-his curls came back each time within a couple of weeks. Nowadays, he used water, half a bottle of _Brillantine_ and a dark green cap he shoved the majority of his curls under in an attempt to look presentable. Though, never before in his life had he felt so terribly _insignificant_ ; his self-consciousness probably wasn’t worth the thirty-minute trouble. Every look he received that weekend passed through him like water, all whisked by without any acknowledgement of his existence.

    He finally let out a sigh, an exhale that encompassed both the stress and anxiety he’d been carrying for the last three days as his hands twitched once more against one another. A fleeting thought of perhaps making that idle- _Standing-Around-In-A-Manhattan-Flat-At-3-In-The-Morning_ part of his journey appear in the living biography he was being commissioned to write, if the publishers would mind it. He was already sitting on a whopping _$900_ advance, so if the book turned out to be not to their liking he figured he-- along with the man he’d be splitting profit with--would be okay regardless... at least for a while. The money sat in the last bit of unpacked luggage he had along with a few months’ worth of clothing, the remainders of a bit of homemade apricot  _rugelach_ _,_  the portfolio that landed him the contract agreement in the first place, and some additional bills his mother shoved into his back pocket while he rushed out the door. She was well aware of just how much the publisher was giving him, and he had protested, but it didn’t deter her. Nothing ever did.

                     _“I’ve wanted to see London since I was little,” his smile wore thin. His train was due to leave soon and she wouldn’t let go of his arm._  
_If she held on long enough, he was certain there'd be imprints on his shoulders where her fingers gripped, “So no promises.”_

 _“_ ** _Kyle_** _,_ _”_ _she said his name the way she usually did when she was bordering irritation, “With all of this running about, you and your brother are gonna kill me and your father before our time, I swear.”_

                     He had internally grimaced at the mention of his father who was notably **absent** from his departure. He wasn’t surprised nor particularly upset that he skipped since Gerald had thrown a near tirade when he first announced his plans. He’d done so over family dinner, a month after graduation, a month after signing the paperwork that tied him down for the next year or so that guaranteed the pre-law grad would be upstate. A desire to uphold the Constitution of the United States had subsided for something that wouldn’t suck the literal fucking life out of him _, “I doubt dad’s losing any sleep.”_

_**"** You think you know your father **that** well, huh? **”**_

                    _The air hung listlessly, smile fading,_ _ **“** Yeah, no, I don’t just ‘ **think** ’ so. I know he isn’t. **”**_

    It was quiet enough in the he could hear his pocket watch ticking away. Family heirloom, sailed across the sea from the crevices of Scotland, or Ireland or some shit—he didn’t pay attention when he was younger. It was probably mentioned again during his bar mitzvah by a relative. His legal childhood was a blur with the exception of a handful of events, and all that happened after went in painful slow motion.

Suddenly, a note cut through the silence of his bedroom, right above his crown.  
     It descended like honey, effectively interrupting his habitual recall of events.

     Kyle ears pricked, eyes then alit and following the trail upward as trills filled the space. The piano was faint enough to where it could’ve accompanied his sleep, but still commanded his attention nonetheless. The piece was unrecognizable, not that he cared. He could feel the improvisation within each movement and it was executed in the _finest_ way, a backdrop to the thousand-foot high billboards that shone in the night without its usual spectators. To the stillness of the apartment, its other resident fast asleep in the next room. Jazz had the same effect on the human body muffled by thin walls and low ceilings as it did played in a concert hall, its notes upon one’s ears caused a relentless warmth to rush through your veins where it was physically absent. As he relaxed, Kyle made a mental reminder to ask him in the morning if this happened on a regular basis and to whom the music belonged to. Perhaps he’d finally speak to him beyond a half-assed greeting and a reminder to turn off the lights if (or when) he left the flat. Of all the places he ventured, this was the first where such raw talent was given without abandon.

  Somewhere in the midst of his enjoyment, Sheila's voice came back.

  _**“** I need you to listen to your mother for once,” she wagged her finger in his face, finally releasing him from her grip as his throat began to burn for a retort, “Gerald just needs time. Loves ya to bits, it’s why he’s always been hard on you—and I know it **feels** unfair— **”**_

_**“** It **is** unfair! He’s— **“**_

_**“** He thinks you’re gonna screw up the hell up just like he did first starting out on his own, **”** she tilted her head, cutting him off before he could _ _go on a tangent,_ _**“** You said through this thing, you were gonna change the world a bit, right? **”**_

His mother and father had different views of how he should approach the life ahead of him, but for the first time in twenty-three years of breathing he was told by to grab it by the horns and not let go for no one, no matter which direction he took.

                    _ **“** Write this book of yours, _bubbeleh. _Prove him wrong. **”**_

**Author's Note:**

> brillantine was the choice men's hair product of that time, though it was nothing aside from a bit of perfume and oil to give that slicked-back look
> 
> and that’s the prologue first chapter will be up uhhh sometime? at some point xo


End file.
